But she's at Clifton, with a couple of nurses,
and Rosamund heard rumours that she is very ill indeed. . . . People go
to Clifton for shattered nerves, you know."

"Yes; for bridge-fidgets, neurosis, pip, and the various jumps that
originate in the simpler social circles. What's the particular matter
with her? Too many cocktails? Or a dearth of grand slams?"

"You are brutal, Austin. Besides, I don't know. She's had a perfectly
dreary life with her husband. . . . I--I can't forget how fond I was of
her in spite of what she did to Phil. . . . Besides, I'm beginning to be
certain that it was not entirely her fault."

"What? Do you think Phil--"

"No, no, no! Don't be an utter idiot. All I mean to say is that Alixe
was always nervous and high-strung; odd at times; eccentric--_more_ than
merely eccentric--"

"You mean dippy?"

"Oh, Austin, you're horrid. I mean that there is mental trouble in that
family. You have heard of it as well as I; you know her father died of
it--"

"The usual defence in criminal cases," observed Austin, flicking his
cigarette-end into the grate. "I'm sorry, dear, that Alixe has the
jumps; hope she'll get over 'em. But as for pretending I've any use for
her, I can't and don't and won't. She spoiled life for the best man I
know; she kicked his reputation into a cocked hat, and he, with his
chivalrous Selwyn conscience, let her do it. I did like her once; I
don't like her now, and that's natural and it winds up the matter. Dear
friend, shall we, perhaps, to bed presently our way wend--yess?"

"Yes, dear; but you are not very charitable about Alixe. And I tell
you I've my own ideas about her illness--especially as she is at
Clifton. . . . I wonder where her little beast of a husband is?"

But Austin only yawned and looked at the toes of his slippers, and then
longingly at the pillows.

* * * * *

Had Nina known it, the husband of Mrs. Ruthven, whom she had
characterised so vividly, was at that very moment seated in a private
card-room at the Stuyvesant Club with Sanxon Orchil, George Fane, and
Bradley Harmon; and the game had been bridge, as usual, and had gone
very heavily against him.

Several things had gone against Mr. Ruthven recently; for one thing, he
was beginning to realise that he had made a vast mistake in mixing
himself up in any transactions with Neergard.

When he, at Neergard's cynical suggestion, had consented to exploit his
own club--the